The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1887-07-26
A PRUSSIAN LIEUTENA ANT.
A Typical Man of His Class-The Pride
of the BerlinerS

a Typical Man of His Class-The Pride
of the Berliners.
What would Berlin be without the Prus-
sian Lieutenant! asks Bliss Perry in a letter
to the Springfield Republican. 1t is hard
to imagine, so thoroughly incorporated does
he seem with the whole social structure
around him. He and men like him have
made the city what it is, and Berlin is
prompt to recognize its political maker,
though not otherwise over-religiolis. This
homage is received by our lieutentant with
self-consciousness, or he would not beGerman.
and with an additional stiffness which
comes of being Prussian. 1t is fine sight
to see him on Inter den Linden, as he saun-
tiers majestically through the crowd, with
immovable face like Won Moltke, with
vacant eyes that nevertheless always notice
the hurried salutes of the privates passing,
and with a self-certainty that is out of
place in this world of confused men and
women. The Berliners make way for him
with tenderness, for they pay his bills, and
often with a smile, too, at his harmless
affectation.
Such one came down Inter den Linden
yesterday afternoon, typical man of his
class, for here was the erect, even gait, the
inexpensive blue eyes, the rosy cheeks.
waxed moustache and shoulders broad
enough not to have needed the padding I'M
der the smooth fitting coat; here was the
half-seen cavalry sabre, the tight trousers,
exquisite boots with tiny spurs-in a word,
here was a bit of that perfect machine
which Won Moltke declares to be the foun-
datiOn of German culture. A part of a
machine. 1t is curious to think that this is
the best use to be made of a thinking man
in the heart of Europe to-day, but lyon
Moltke knows" and we must believe him,
and here was a specimen of the machinery
which would have moved to its death Just
as it moved through the light rain that was
falling-with trained indifference.
A minute before he reached the Wilhelm
strasse, a droschky rounded the corner and
the horse slid and fell upon the treacherous
asphalt. The driver cursed and pulled at
the reins and the horse struggled powerful
ly to rise, but shipped with every effort.
The driver, stupidity drunk, clambered
down and took his whip All this happens
every rainy day on the Berlin streets, and
there is nothing in it to detain for a moment
the most careless lounger, to say nothing of
an officer whose dinner is waiting.
Crack! cut the whip on the horses head,
once, twice-'StOp, you cursed hound' and
his whip was snatched by a white-gloved
hand and tossed into the middle Of the
street. stand backn And the Lieutenant,
his blue eyes all ablaze, seized the blanket
from bne DOX, spread IL carefully under the
horses fore feet to give him a better foot
hold took him by the bit and spoke i'll East
Prussian dialect something that the horse,
though a born Berliner, understood, for he
stretched out his hoofs, felt the blanket I'M
der them, struggled to his feet, and stood
painting DRIVER" said the honest young
voice, ''do you understand me, No. 3,217G"
No. 3,217, scared into sobriety beyond that
of any of his 5000 brethren, saluted, but
dared not speak, and the wrathful cavalry
man strobe on again.
Has Prussian lieutenant heart? This
is the question that runs through the acts
of a new play at the Deutches Theatre, and
both actors and audience seem as doubtful
about the proper answer at the end as they
are when the curtain rises. If you We're
to ask No. 3,217 he would not understand
you. His horse knows, but, like a cunning
beast, says nothing, and Berlin is none the
wiser